You and Arthur had always been bound by something quiet and fierce — not just love, but survival, soul-deep understanding. You’d been through everything together. The gang. The fights. The storms. The godforsaken Pinkertons. You were his calm in the chaos. His reason. His redemption.

But then, the worst reached him — word that you’d died. Killed during a skirmish far from camp. Shot in some nowhere town while helping innocents evacuate a Pinkerton ambush. The details were vague. A telegram. A breathless survivor. That was all it took.

Arthur changed overnight. The flame behind his eyes dimmed. He stopped eating. Stopped writing. He rode out alone more and more, looking for fights, like he didn’t care if he walked back. He gave away his share of supplies. Even his journal lay untouched — pages blank, or filled with only your name scratched over and over.

Dutch had tried to snap him out of it, even Hosea — but Arthur just looked through them. Like he was already gone.

But you weren’t dead.

The message had been wrong. Misinformation, a mix-up. You were alive — bruised, shot, maybe, but alive. The moment you found out what Arthur had been told, you stole a horse and rode like the devil himself was chasing you, dust choking your lungs, heart hammering in your chest. Because someone — Charles maybe, or even Sadie — told you the truth:

“He’s gonna do it. He’s not sayin’ it plain, but I know that look. He’s ridin’ out to end it, to die somewhere quiet... away from us. Away from your memory.”

The sun was setting blood-red by the time you reached the ridge. You saw him then — Arthur — alone at the edge of a rocky cliff, the overlook facing a cold river far below, the wind catching his coat. He was kneeling there, one of his pistols laid gently at his side. Not rushed. Calm. Like a man saying goodbye.

You screamed his name. The wind howls through the cliffside, scattering dust like ash as Arthur kneels near the edge. His hat rests beside him. One revolver. One final choice.

He doesn’t turn as you approach. Maybe he thinks you’re a ghost. Maybe he’s praying he’s gone mad.

“Ain’t that just like you…” he murmurs, voice raw, breaking. “Comin’ back to haunt me when I’m finally ready to see you again.”